


Nonbinary

by ChloShow



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Red Wheelbarrow, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: Elliot reconsiders his place in the gender binary.





	

Out of all the facets of myself I’d churned in my overanalytical blender, gender had somehow missed the boat. When you’ve been inundated with America’s sick binary fascination since birth, you miss out on most ideological intricacies. Good vs. Evil. Normal vs. Abnormal. Law vs. Crime. Straight vs. Gay. Male vs. Female.The problem is that categories are useful. If you donate regularly to the Salvation Army and lecture everyone on the importance of not texting and driving, surely you’re a good, law-abiding citizen. But how do pirating music and using your friend’s leftover Disneyworld tickets factor into the equation?

We as a people avoid ambiguity, so we weigh our actions, take our Myers-Briggs inventories. And depending on how you answered a set of questions, your personality is laid before you, followed by a series of job recommendations. Nevermind the people without a label. Dreams of INFJ and ENTP dance in their heads, and for Christmas, their test results come up inconclusive. What we do then is fudge the data because no one wants to avoid categorization.

I don’t remember the first time I met a transgender person, but the earliest memory I have is when Mom, Dad, Darlene, and me went to IHOP. Our server had short hair and a flat chest, but his voice tipped off my mother.

“Miss,” my mother called across the restaurant for a refill. I looked at our server’s nametag: Andrew.

“Miss, we’re low on coffee.”

Through Andrew’s professional, pasted-on smile, I could tell he was hurt. As he drifted away to refill the pot, I stuck up for him as best as I could, “I think his name is Andrew.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elliot. She’s obviously a woman, no matter how she dresses,” she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray near the salt and pepper.

Luckily, I learned not to trust what my mother said at a very young age, so I usually looked to my dad for guidance. I remember watching how my dad acted with Andrew, what language he used, any comments on our server whatsoever, but Dad had opted out of gendering Andrew at all. In the moment, I was proud of him, but in hindsight Mom and Dad were both wrong.

I’m surprised that hadn’t scratched my brain earlier.

Actually, no, I’m not surprised. I had enough on my plate, and maybe seeing my mom’s reaction to Andrew had buried any desire I had to analyze the rich complexities of gender.

That’s how the first time I’d ever started to scratch that underdeveloped, underexamined part of my brain was when I’d first met Carla.

OH, GREAT. NOT ONLY HAS THIS CARLA DISTRACTED YOU FROM THE PLAN, SHE’S GOT YOU WAXING POETIC ABOUT BULLSHIT IDENTITY POLITICS. NEWSFLASH, KIDDO. GENDER DOESN’T EXIST. WE SPEND OUR DAYS COLOR CODING OUR CHILDREN SO THAT STRANGERS KNOW WHAT THEIR GENITALS LOOK LIKE. IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU _THINK_ YOU ARE. THE CULTURAL INSTITUTIONS HAVE FOOLED YOU INTO BELIEVING THAT THERE IS EVEN SOMETHING TO _BE_ IN THE FIRST PLACE!

Throughout my childhood, I never fit in with the boys. Or the girls. Or anyone. I was an outcast no matter how you spun it.

WOE IS ME. MOMMY DIDN’T LOVE ME, AND NOW I’M FUCKED UP. YOU KNOW HOW PREDICTABLY FREUDIAN THAT SOUNDS, RIGHT?

Shut the fuck up!

WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO THEM ABOUT THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE? IT’S ENTIRELY IRRELEVANT TO THE FATE OF THE WORLD, WHICH YOU’RE RESPONSIBLE FOR BY THE WAY. BUT INSTEAD, YOU’VE GOT YOURSELF LOCKED UP, TELLING YOURSELF YOU’RE TRANSGENDER. MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET A SHOW ON TLC.

Anyway, I never really _got_ masculinity. I attributed that to my precocious world views, recognizing that hegemonic masculinity was a crock of shit. But being self aware didn’t prevent some of that cultural vomit from seeping in and taking root. I’ve been taking stock of what I’ve learned about manhood and analyzing how much of myself actually overlaps with those ideals. And as a shock to no one, I truly don’t endorse or experience any of these mental/emotional states said to encapsulate manhood.

Sure, sometimes I crave a normal life where I have a white picket fence, a house with a red door, a wife, kids, and a dog. But is that really me speaking, or is that the American Dream that has been grafted onto my prefrontal cortex.

The logical next step in realizing that you’re not a man is to examine womanhood, but those tenets and regulations feel just as alien.

So do you know what I am? For once, I don’t have the answer. My world is primarily binary, and to discover I don’t fit inside the world I’ve constructed is disjointing to say the least. As much as I hate to define an identity using its relationship to a pre-existing concept, I think, for now, I’ll police these false dichotomies and sample a nonbinary life.


End file.
